I’ve written the synopsis for my next book. It’s received the ‘thumbs up’ from my editor and I’ve signed my contract. In preparation for the Great Start, I’ve dusted my laptop screen and adjusted my writing chair into a position that’s essential for good posture. And now, when I should be writing that essential—and usually jettisoned—first paragraph, I’m overcome by the need to bake. 

I forget about this pattern of behaviour from book to book and am always taken by surprise when the urge comes upon me to make loaves and scones, Victoria sponges and concoctions challenging enough to feature in The Great Bake Off.

As I take out the weighing scales, open my favourite recipe book, and locate the baking trays that have been ignored since the last time I was afflicted by this compulsion, I can never decide if this is a prelude to the creativity I’m about to unleash onto my screen or if this is a sugar-dusted reason to procrastinate.   

I know only too well that there are monstrous and lovable characters lurking in my subconscious, waiting impatiently to be born. They intend to consume me for the next twelve to eighteen months and more. But, if, as I suspect, I’m procrastinating, I can hold them at bay by concentrating on baking the perfect cake. Yeast rising in my imagination. Flour and butter binding my ideas. Eggs giving life to my characters. Caster sugar sweetening their rough edges. Sultanas adding texture and colour to their landscape. Icing sugar giving my plot that extra gloss and flourish.

 My husband recognises the signs. Knowing that his waistline will soon be in the XXL category if I don’t stop, he will eventually coax me from the oven back to my laptop. He will silence my protests, refuse to reveal where he has hidden my recipe book and assure me that all will settle back to normal once I’ve written my first chapter.

He’s right, as usual.

Is there a writer out there who does not procrastinate? If so, stand up and declare yourself, you fearless soul.

Beginning a book is always difficult, even more so, I believe, if you are a seasoned author. You understand the toll it will take on your creative ingenuity, the battles you will wage to put flesh, bone, muscle and sinew on the shadowy characters who have decided to become participants in your novel, and the emotional, and physical energy you’ll need as you edit…edit…edit… You’ve also experienced the separation anxieties that accompany your ‘baby’ into the arms of the reading community.

Sometimes, it seems like an easier option to rid your garden of thistles, hose-out the bin that’s used for the disposal of objects associated with grime, or simply switch on the oven.  

The reason why I can write with such clarity on this subject is that, right now there is flour under my fingernails. The muffins rising in my oven are the last ones I will bake for the foreseeable future. Aware that my laptop is calling me, I’m resisting a sudden urge to order a dumpster and clear out the spare room, the attic and the garden shed.

Procrastination should never be confused with contemplation. The power of the meditative hours spent gazing at sunsets, listening to the lap of waves or the droning of bees allows space for the emergence of ideas that must be kneaded, battered and beaten into shape.

The secret is to appreciate the difference between the busyness of procrastination and the inactive hours of reflection. The latter can lead to extraordinary works of imagination whereas only time will tell if allowing too much aeration, additives and fermentation into the creative process allows the cake to rise or sink soggily in the middle.

Not Their Daughter, is out now!